


An Old Friend

by wheel_pen



Series: Indigo [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-20 11:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4785530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and his slave Indigo run into an old friend of Indigo’s, from the days when he was John Watson and a free man. Normally this would be a very awkward situation, but Sherlock always has an unusual approach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.  
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> This story has not been Britpicked. Please let me know if I get anything horribly wrong.  
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

Out and about in London. Typical day, a little cloudy, a little cool, enough for Sherlock to wear his favorite long wool coat (that he wouldn’t admit was his favorite) but not quite enough for him to turn its collar up, thus showing off his cheekbones (which he wouldn’t admit to doing on purpose). Indigo loved London. He loved the energy of all the people, he loved the history of every spot, he loved the diversity—even if Sherlock was ranting because he was out running errands (which he readily admitted to hating) and dragging Indigo quickly past all the places _he_ might want to stop.

Well, he could still _look_ at least. And then at the end would be Baker Street and tea and Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits, probably more ranting from Sherlock for a bit but then he would settle down to fiddle with an experiment and Indigo could sit on the couch with his novel. G-d, considering what he’d been used to over the years, the image was so pleasant he could almost start crying.

“Are you paying attention at all?” Sherlock suddenly snapped, turning on him.

“Of course,” Indigo claimed. “We’re on Oxbridge, between Connolly and New Haven, and we just passed that Indian place we eat at sometimes. Chicken tiki masala is the daily special.”

This did not really impress Sherlock as they waited for the walk symbol on the corner. “Were you paying attention to anything other than _food_?” Sherlock wanted to know, peevishly. Indigo refused to feel bad about that; food was abnormally unimportant to Sherlock. “What about my thoughts on the current state of the criminal mind in London?”

They started to cross the street to cut through the park. “Are they the same as your thoughts last week?” Indigo dared to reply. “If so, I thoroughly agree,” he added quickly when Sherlock looked back at him. Okay, even though the rants were largely the same, he ought to pay more attention to them, Indigo thought. It was a small enough thing to ask. “Sorry,” he went on after a moment. “I thought you were very logical with the dry cleaner.”

Sherlock huffed. “The man is a _professional_ , supposedly, he ought to know how to get brain matter out of cashmere.”

“I agree, it’s a very nice scarf—“

“Watson? John Watson?”

Indigo didn’t even notice the call at first—there was a fair bit of shouting in London, especially from portly men on park benches wearing raincoats. Best to ignore it. Sherlock was the one who slowed in response, and the man repeated his words with delight in his tone.

“Watson! It _is_ you.”

Indigo turned because Sherlock had turned—that was eighty percent of the reason, anyway. Of course he knew his own name, he just hadn’t heard it in a while, and in this context it made approximately zero sense. The portly man in the raincoat was standing now, smiling, and his face flashed through Indigo’s mind. Visitor at one of his previous master’s houses. No, of course not, they would’ve called him by a slave name—

No, this was much worse.

“Stamford, Mike Stamford,” the man reminded him cheerfully, approaching. “We were at St. Bart’s together.”

Indigo felt like his entire chest cavity was frozen—fear, embarrassment, shame? _Something_ completely paralyzed him. What would Sherlock think about this? What would Stamford do when he realized his old mate was now a slave? Could Indigo just zone out and at least not have to live through the humiliating scene that was coming?

“I know,” Stamford laughed, heedless of Indigo’s internal conflict. “I got fat! You joined the Army or something, didn’t you? Went off to get shot at?” he asked jovially.

And then a second voice cut in. “He did,” Sherlock agreed. “You teach at St. Bart’s now, don’t you? Index finger of your left hand is a dead giveaway.” Stamford looked down at his hand in amazement and Sherlock smoothly reached up behind Indigo, pulling on his scarf so it covered his slave collar. Then he gave Indigo a pinch that jolted him to life again.

“Yes, Mike, how’ve you been?” he finally said, infusing his tone and expression with a warmth he didn’t really feel. Nothing to do with Stamford, he’d been a harmless fellow; Indigo just felt like he’d had a near-death experience, was all. They shook hands and Stamford’s eyes slid over to Sherlock. He’d certainly seen them holding hands. “This is Sherlock Holmes, my… friend.” Well that wasn’t awkward at all.

Sherlock readily shook hands as well. “Basic anatomy, yes?” he deduced. “Exam coming up. Don’t be too soft on them, anatomy is an extremely useful subject.”

“Blimey, that’s right!” Stamford confirmed with delight. “I _do_ teach basic anatomy, and I’ve been working on the next exam! How’d you know that?”

“Quite obvious,” Sherlock claimed, but charmingly; he _could_ be charming when he wanted to.

“He’s a marvel,” Indigo sputtered, forcing his tone to be upbeat.

“Say, John, have you got time for a coffee?” Stamford asked, and Indigo felt himself go pale all over again. “I’d love to catch up.”

Indigo opened his mouth, hoping something appropriate would come out. “I can’t today,” he responded, slightly robotic.

“Sorry, in a rush today,” Sherlock supplemented swiftly. “But perhaps you’d give him your mobile number for later?”

“Yes, yes, that would be great,” Indigo hurried to encourage, pasting a smile on his face.

“Oh, of course, sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt,” Stamford apologized as he fumbled with a scrap of paper.

“No, not at all,” Sherlock assured him, and Indigo jumped in quickly to echo the sentiment.

“Absolutely, I’m glad you did, it’s wonderful to see you after all this time,” he insisted. “Quite incredible. Last person I expected to meet.”

Stamford handed him the number. “Here you go. Call whenever, if I’m in class or something just leave a voicemail, alright?”

“Yes, alright.”

“Great to see you, John, glad you’re doing well!” Stamford beamed. “Nice to meet you, too, Sherlock.”

“Nice to meet you,” Sherlock returned politely, proving that somewhere, deep inside, he did actually remember the manners he’d been taught. Then he took Indigo’s hand again and walked away, Indigo automatically following. He did at least manage to look back at Stamford, smile, and wave. Then he grimly faced the direction they were walking in, his thoughts chaos.

He didn’t really notice where they were going until suddenly his field of view darkened and he realized they’d stepped inside—a pub, actually, quiet this time of day. Sherlock ordered two shots of brandy and carried them over to a booth in the corner, where Indigo sat without thinking.

Sherlock pushed one of the shots at him. “Drink that,” he ordered.

Indigo’s immediate reaction was to balk. “Slaves aren’t supposed to—“ Sherlock gave him a look and he shut up and downed the shot. It was just that, right now, he was keenly aware of what slaves were and weren’t supposed to do, and his mind churned with replays of the encounter with Stamford, wondering if he’d stepped out of bounds at all. Even Sherlock had to realize he’d done something wrong.

Sherlock sipped his drink and waited until the color came back to Indigo’s cheeks. “Was he a friend of yours?” he inquired.

Indigo’s attention snapped to his master, now wary of what his reaction would be. “I—well—I suppose, a long time ago, in med school—“

“Yes, I understand the timeline,” Sherlock assured him, deliberately patient. “Was he a friend? Or an enemy?”

“Oh, no, he was a friend,” Indigo promised, given those two choices. Normal people didn’t _have_ enemies. Wait, was he normal? He certainly had people he hated, but he doubted they spared _him_ the slightest thought now. Anyway, Stamford didn’t qualify there. “No, we were mates. Studied together, went out to the pub sometimes.” Not unlike this one, actually.

“Good,” Sherlock said shortly. “You should call him and have a coffee.”

Indigo’s eyes dropped to the brandy glass, assessing if Sherlock had had enough to impair his judgment. As little as he ate, his tolerance must be quite low. “Really?”

Sherlock, of course, knew what he was thinking. “I’ve had two sips of brandy, Indigo,” he informed him frostily. “I am hardly mentally incapacitated. Yes, really. Don’t be tiresome and go into shock again.” Only Sherlock could say that with such panache.

Indigo deflated suddenly, burying his head in his arms on the table. He should’ve known Sherlock would have an unusual reaction to the situation. He didn’t seem angry at all, which somehow made Indigo feel worse—the man had even bought him a drink! Was this luck, or madness? He often wondered that these days.

Sherlock poked his arm and was frowning when Indigo looked up. “Do you want the rest of this?” he asked in concern, indicating his brandy.

“I do,” Indigo admitted, and Sherlock pushed it across the table. He downed it in one.

“If you are suitably relaxed, I believe some communication is in order,” Sherlock announced clinically.

Indigo felt as though the other man was opening a new lab notebook in his mind, labeled with Indigo’s name and a case number. Add it to the stack. “Yes. Um, I’m terribly sorry about that,” he began quickly. “G-d, that was really awful.”

Sherlock’s expression said this did not compute. “You just said this man was a friend.”

“Er, well, yes,” Indigo agreed. “But, it’s awkward, me being a slave now, and I guess my scarf was hiding the collar—I mean, I didn’t do that on _purpose_ —“

“ _I_ did it on purpose,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Indigo, I feel we are talking at cross-purposes,” Sherlock assessed.

“That does often happen.”

“So: were you embarrassed that your old friend would realize you’re now a slave?” Sherlock asked analytically.

“Yes,” Indigo replied, trying to be forthright. “It’s not very high status, you know.”

“Especially for a doctor joining the Army,” Sherlock nodded. “This Stamford would undoubtedly consider your potential even more wasted than his own.”

“Mmm. Is there going to be more brandy?” Indigo asked hopefully, playing with a glass.

Sherlock took it away from him. “No. I need you to focus,” he instructed. “People who weren’t born into slavery usually become slaves due to criminal convictions—mid-level, largely non-violent.”

Indigo knew this well, of course. “Yes. You got a special deal, though, because not many were court-martialed and facing execution.”

“Let’s not be bitter, Indigo,” Sherlock said coolly, as though he’d been personally affronted by this comment.

Indigo sighed. “G-d, sorry. Yes, it’s embarrassing because it means I did something rather bad in the past,” he explained, “and I was always a fairly clean-cut person when Stamford knew me. I’m sure he’d be quite shocked. Also,” he went on, clearing his throat, “I don’t think that’s really how it’s supposed to happen.”

Sherlock looked at him blankly. “What?”

“When you see someone you used to know, and it turns out they’re a slave now.” He glanced up at Sherlock, always wary of suggesting he’d done something wrong as a master. “Er, probably he should’ve noticed the collar right away and gotten awkward, and then you would’ve been all, ‘ _Yes_? Can I help you?’” Indigo tried and likely failed to do an impression of Sherlock at his most icily disdainful. “And then Stamford would’ve said, ‘Sorry, no, made a mistake,’ and I’d be staring at my shoes, then we’d march away and you’d accuse me of somehow attracting his attention and punish me.”

Sherlock blinked at him. “Is that supposed to be better than what actually happened?” he questioned in confusion.

“Well, no,” Indigo admitted, feeling slightly helpless. “It’s just more _usual_.”

“Instead you got his phone number, learned what he was up to, and drank one and a half brandies,” Sherlock went on. “What part of this conclusion is unsatisfactory to you?”

“Er, no part.”

“Well then _what_ are you whinging about?” Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes. “Come on, let’s go. I thought there was something really wrong with you.” He grabbed Indigo’s hand and left the pub swiftly, his long legs taking impossible strides that Indigo hurried to keep up with.

“Are you angry?” Indigo finally ventured, after a couple of blocks. It was hard to tell with Sherlock sometimes, he’d found, and better to ask than find out later he’d been brooding about it.

“Angry? I think that’s a bit extreme,” Sherlock judged. “I just find you very perplexing, Indigo. I enjoy complexity, but sometimes a little more rationality would be appreciated.”

“Right, sorry.” Indigo was not actually sure what he was talking about. “I meant about Stamford.”

Sherlock huffed impatiently and looked back at Indigo, who suddenly had to grab him to keep him from stepping right off the curb into traffic. Sherlock stopped moving but otherwise didn’t seem to notice the save. “Indigo, I would hardly have encouraged the conversation, gotten his number, and told you to call him if I were angry about it!” he pointed out. “ _Please_ , do stop being stupid.”

Indigo smirked a little. “Well since you said please.”

Sherlock looked around. “Why are we just standing here?” he wanted to know.

“There’s cars.”

“Ah. And where were we headed?”

“You mentioned the bank,” Indigo suggested, “and we haven’t been yet.”

Sherlock got his bearings and started off down the sidewalk again. “Honestly, your foolishness disrupted my entire thought process,” he claimed.

“Sorry.”

“And now we have to go to the bank!” he added in disgust, as though Indigo’s actions had somehow necessitated this.

Indigo understood his role, though. In this instance, anyway. “What don’t you like about the bank?” he inquired curiously, even as Sherlock took a breath to tell him anyway.

“First, everything echoes. It’s disturbing. Second, the floors are too shiny…”

**

It was a week before Indigo thought he had perhaps gotten up the nerve to call Stamford. At least, _almost_ all the nerve.

“Indigo,” Sherlock said, and he felt suddenly relieved that he might have to put the call off. “You have been staring at your mobile for five minutes. Are you going to call Stanley or not?”

“Stamford,” Indigo corrected.

“ _Whatever_ ,” Sherlock dismissed, simultaneously flinging the newspaper he’d been reading over his shoulder. He pulled his feet up into his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. “Please do so and relieve me of the burden of having to remember this.”

Sherlock had closed his eyes, so Indigo rolled his. When he looked back, though, Sherlock was watching him with an unamused expression. “Um, do you think I should?” he asked quickly.

“Yes. Get it over with.”

Indigo smirked a little, imagining that Sherlock often found social meetings something to be gotten over with, as quickly as possible. “Well, where should I suggest we go?” Near Baker Street, near St. Bart’s, somewhere they knew Indigo, somewhere he’d never been—what if Stamford had a place he preferred—

“I don’t care,” Sherlock declared, closing his eyes again. He was no longer interested in the subject, and Indigo suppressed a sigh.

“Right.” He stood to make his call in the bedroom, where he wouldn’t bother anyone.

Sherlock’s eyes popped open. “Wait,” he commanded. Passive-aggressively Indigo froze but didn’t turn back to look at him. “Sit,” he added, pointedly, and Indigo sat back down on the couch. “Mmm, it’s not that I don’t care,” Sherlock corrected, with the slightest hint of awkwardness. “I’m sure you will be independent and responsible, so I needn’t concern myself with the details.” Indigo started to smile, slowly. He liked it when Sherlock _tried_. He liked that Sherlock felt the _need_ to try. “In fact, I would like you to tell me when you decide on a location and time. Well, leave a note,” he amended.

“I’ll definitely leave a note,” Indigo promised, grinning. Sherlock smiled too, a little, a real smile that didn’t seem to get used much, and for a moment Indigo didn’t feel like going out at all.

Then Sherlock closed his eyes and his expression relaxed. “Please be quiet for a while, I’m thinking.”

Indigo nodded, even though he couldn’t see him, and slipped into the bedroom, ready to make the call.


	2. Chapter 2

Indigo was unreasonably nervous. He wasn’t _extremely_ nervous, because after all these years he had decent coping skills, but he judged that he was more nervous than was really required. That thought seemed very Sherlockian to him, especially coupled with the mental suggestion to dial his nervousness back down to an acceptable level, as if he was a thermostat.

Stamford had suggested a coffee shop near St. Bart’s, where Indigo had never been. He was too embarrassed to ask Sherlock to check it out with him in advance, and anyway there wasn’t much time and Sherlock clearly had other things he’d planned to do. He was, it appeared, boiling some eels on the stove when Indigo left, something about timing how long it took for the skin to separate from the flesh, and there was also a complaint about having to use eels instead of human limbs, which Indigo chose not to think about too much. Anyway, the coffee shop was a chain, several of which Indigo had been to in the past, and he knew the atmosphere and the general policy towards slaves.

That was the thing he was really worried about—he was going to tell Stamford he was a slave right away, but some shops had strict rules about slave patrons—that they ought to kneel at their master’s side rather than use the furniture, for example. If a slave was legitimately about his master’s business—even while apparently meeting another free person for a social event—they weren’t really doing anything wrong legally, but some places could be very unwelcoming to unsupervised slaves.

Indigo had some cash and Sherlock’s credit card and permission to use them for this (actually he always carried them now, as Sherlock had a tendency to lose such unimportant things) but Sherlock had given him one of those half-confused, half-annoyed looks when Indigo asked him to write a note which he could show people if challenged, so Indigo had dropped that idea. His collar and tag were firmly in place so Sherlock could be called if he got into trouble. Well, if someone _made_ trouble for him, because Indigo had no intention of actively _getting_ into trouble.

Only, Sherlock wasn’t always keen on answering the phone and sometimes didn’t pay it the full attention he ought. Perhaps he could suggest they call Mrs. Hudson instead? As a last resort, if dealing with the police, he could drop Lestrade’s name, though he hated to think he might be taking his attention away from a murder investigation or something. Of course Indigo often went out without Sherlock to do chores, but they were typically very mundane things like grocery shopping, and didn’t involve sitting and having a pleasant chat with someone.

Oh, right, that’s what he was meant to be doing: looking forward to a pleasant chat with an old friend. Indigo wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and checked the time again, wondering if Stamford was somehow already inside the shop. Indigo had been staking out the place from across the street for the last twenty minutes, because he definitely wasn’t going to go in, order a coffee, and sit by himself, even if his collar was temporarily concealed by his scarf again. Too risky, in his opinion. Next time they saw Sherlock’s brother maybe he could ask Anthea if she had any tips on conducting business on her master’s behalf in public. He suspected being a beautiful young woman helped a lot.

Finally he saw Stamford walking down the sidewalk and entering the shop, only three minutes past the time they’d set. Indigo waited another minute, then crossed the street himself. He walked inside, automatically glancing around to note the exits and anything suspicious about the other patrons, as if he’d just entered a coffee shop in Kabul. So, that was a great way to start, with a war flashback. Stamford was already at the counter, and he spotted Indigo and waved jovially, flapping his cash awkwardly instead of handing it to the cashier. It made Indigo smile a little, genuinely, because that was pure Mike: he had always been, frankly, the dorky guy that few people hung out with, or only when they needed help studying for an exam. Indigo would not claim they had been _close_ friends, but obviously Mike thought of him fondly.

“Hello,” Indigo greeted, joining him at the counter.

“Hi! Glad I’m not late, thought I was going to be,” Mike chattered, interrupted halfway through by the cashier with his change. “Office hours ran long, don’t know why these kids don’t realize they’ve got no clue until an exam’s coming up—“

Indigo smiled again. “Well, _we_ never did, did we?” He ordered and paid, then stepped to the side with Mike to wait for their drinks. “How long have you been teaching?”

Mike had seemed like he would be a good teacher way back when, and Indigo made sure to tell him so, recalling his ability to explain complex terms in multiple ways until it finally clicked with the listener. Mike seemed glad of the praise, which made Indigo glad he’d given it; and he found himself wondering if Sherlock would respond well to that concept, or not. Funny how often the man intruded on his thoughts like that.

Coffee in hand, Indigo was a bit aggressive in steering them towards a table in the back corner. The moment of truth ought to be coming soon, and he wasn’t sure how Mike was going to take it.

“So how have _you_ been?” Mike finally pressed. “Must be doing alright, by the look of that bloke you were with!” he added cheerfully, in a hinting way.

Indigo smiled, a bit thinly. “Well, I joined the Army,” he began, which Mike already knew, “and eventually I was an assistant surgeon in Afghanistan—“

“Blimey!” Mike exclaimed, with appropriate concern. “That must’ve been rough.”

“Yes,” Indigo understated, in an effort to get to his point. He didn’t like talking about it anyway. “Well, in the Army, I ran into some trouble and…” He kept his eyes on Mike’s face as he unwound his scarf, revealing the slave collar.

Mike, bless him, took a moment to process this, and Indigo had to tap his tag lightly. Then Mike’s eyes widened as it sunk in. “Are you a—“ He lowered his voice suddenly and glanced around. “—a slave?” he added.

“Yes,” Indigo agreed blandly, sipping his coffee. Inside he was so tense he almost couldn’t swallow.

Mike sat up straighter, and for one awful moment Indigo thought he was going to get up and walk out. Then he leaned back across the table to peer at the collar and tag. Indigo held it out as much as he could. “Blimey,” Mike repeated. “Indigo?”

“That’s my name now.”

“Oh. And that Sherlock fellow—“

“He’s my master.”

“Oh.” Mike sat back, seemingly at a loss for words. Indigo tried to act casually, as if he had to explain this to people all the time. “Is he—is he nice?” Mike finally asked, and Indigo smiled, slightly surprised.

“Yes, he’s a nice chap,” he assured Mike. The man seemed relieved, and contrarily this bothered Indigo. “Sherlock is nice, but not all of my owners have been,” he went on soberly. “Some of them have been pretty bad.” No one was really happy being a slave, even if they were happy _for_ a slave, and Indigo hated the naïve idea some people clung to, that it was alright to enslave other people as long as they were well-treated.

Mike nodded slowly, amazingly seeming to understand. “I’m sorry to hear that, John,” he replied, then added quickly, “Oh, sorry, ought I to call you Indigo? Was, er, your master mad about the other day? I hope I didn’t get you in trouble.”

“No, Sherlock was fine with it,” Indigo told him, still slightly disbelieving of this himself. “He’s a very unconventional person. Said I ought to call you and meet up.”

“That does seem unconventional,” Mike agreed, “but I’m glad he did.”

“Oh, and, I guess you can call me whatever you like,” Indigo went on. He had thought about this question himself and not come up with an answer yet. “I’ve gotten a new name with each master, so it doesn’t really seem so important.”

“Oh,” Mike replied, as if he found this interesting. “Sherlock named you Indigo, then?”

“Yes.” He didn’t want to say it was because of his eyes; that somehow seemed too intimate. “He’s a private detective, consults with the police and solves murders,” he continued quickly. Everyone always found this interesting and Mike was no exception.

“Really? That’s incredible!”

“Yes, he’s very clever. That’s how he knew you taught anatomy from looking at your thumb or whatever,” Indigo revealed dryly. “Observes and deduces.” Okay, so he didn’t say it with quite the flair Sherlock did.

“Huh. And he treats you alright?” Mike’s concern seemed genuine, and Indigo was touched by that. Not that it really meant anything tangible, but that wasn’t the point, was it? “What do you, er, do?”

“Well, he’s a bit eccentric,” Indigo tried to explain. “You know, rather like some of the professors we had, the ones we thought were so ancient—like Potter and Leibnitz—“

“Oh, Leibnitz!” Mike remembered with nostalgic delight. “D’you know, he was _still_ there when I started teaching? Then finally retired—“

“Always muttering about the inner ear and forgetting his keys and wallet?” Indigo laughed. “Yes, that’s Sherlock. Slightly more presentable, but still thinks things like paying bills and eating are optional in life. So I take care of a lot of that for him.”

“Well that’s good, isn’t it?” Mike posited. “Keeps you busy, and it sounds like responsibility. I remember—there were slaves at St. Bart’s when we were there, weren’t there? I mean, there still are. Mostly janitors, work in the kitchen, that sort of thing.” Indigo nodded, vaguely recalling them. Their training had been in discretion and efficiency. “Always under someone’s eye doing grunt work, and hardly allowed to speak without permission,” he went on. “Seems like this Sherlock gives you some independence, anyway.”

“Yes, he does,” Indigo agreed. “It’s a good situation, under the circumstances.” He was happy to praise Sherlock but didn’t want to take it too far and sound like he was praising the _system_.

Mike nodded and there was a pause. “Can I ask—“ he ventured, and Indigo knew immediately where this was head. “—what happened, that you ended up a slave?”

It was a natural question, and Indigo had practiced his answer. “It’s sort of classified,” he began in an apologetic tone. “I mean, I wasn’t a spy or anything, they don’t let spies go as slaves to private owners.” Mike seemed to believe this. “But I tried to help someone, when I’d been ordered not to,” he said vaguely, “and it all went wrong rather spectacularly.” Indigo stared down at his swirling coffee for a long moment, picturing things he didn’t really want to picture, on the verge of comforting himself by zoning out when he remembered Sherlock wasn’t here to wake him up. He looked up abruptly. “Sorry,” he said with a faint smirk. “Uh, so how did you land the job at St. Bart’s?”

They chatted for a while longer, and Mike’s attitude didn’t seem appreciably different from when they’d started, which Indigo was glad of. Maybe a smidge more awkward, or perhaps sensitive, about talking of things Indigo could no longer do, like travel for pleasure or chat up the nice department secretary; and he avoided using any name for him at all. But considering how horribly Indigo had imagined it going down, those things didn’t bother him too much, and in fact he found them somewhat thoughtful.

Mike had to go back to work, and they said good-bye outside the coffee shop. “It was really good to talk to you,” Mike told him, sounding sincere. “I’m glad you called. Er, tell Sherlock thanks? Is that what one does?”

“I’ll make sure he knows,” Indigo promised. “It was good to see you, too, I’m glad you stopped us.”

“Well, take care.” They parted ways, heading in opposite directions—Mike back to St. Bart’s, Indigo back to Baker Street.

After he turned the corner he wrapped the scarf back around his collar. He wasn’t pretending _not_ to be a slave—he had to remind himself of that or his whole posture would change—but he was cold, or could legitimately claim he was, and… things just seemed easier when the collar wasn’t the first thing people saw. Generally he revealed it when he walked into a shop, so people knew who they were dealing with.

G-d, even as a slave he made little rules for himself, he thought—being reminded of when he _hadn’t_ been a slave tended to make him compare his behaviors before and after, and as Stamford had recalled with some amusement, Indigo had always been making rules about how much he would study before going to the pub, or how many times he would chat idly with someone before asking them out. Somehow, it was comforting to realize what _hadn’t_ changed, what he still retained as _him_ after everything.

His introspection ended when he entered the foyer at Baker Street—it was cold, and the air was tinged with a ghastly smell. “Mrs. Hudson?” Indigo inquired, rolling his eyes at whatever trouble Sherlock had caused now.

He climbed the stairs quickly, and took a moment to remember something he hadn’t mentioned to Stamford—his injury from the Army, that he’d carried around for years before Sherlock cured it. That was not something to be overlooked. Indigo had a lot to be grateful to Sherlock for—he didn’t mind saying that to _himself_ without caveats.

Of course, then there was the ghastly smell and the cold, which only intensified after he opened the door to their flat. The cold at least was explained by the windows being wide open. One did not have to be a deductive genius to connect this with the smell. “Sherlock?” Indigo called. There were no signs of the boiled eels in the kitchen dustbin.

Sherlock stomped out of his bedroom, rather comically swathed in three jumpers, one of which might be Indigo’s. He was, in a word, peeved. “Mrs. Hudson took my eels!” he snapped at Indigo’s questioning look.

“Oh.” What did one say to that?

“I had them sitting out to time their congealing rate, and she came in and said they smelled bad!” he went on indignantly.

“Oh, is _that_ the smell?” Indigo realized.

“I _hardly_ think it’s _that_ bad,” Sherlock insisted. “Then she knocked the whole lot in the bin before I could stop her and took them out.”

“She _is_ a rather spry old lady sometimes, isn’t she?” Indigo deadpanned.

Sherlock made a primal noise of frustration and twirled around the living room. “What am I going to _do_ now?” he moaned dramatically. “I had an entire suite of experiments planned for the eels today! Thank G-d you’re back, anyway,” he added, throwing himself down on the couch.

“Really?” Indigo asked with a smile.

“Yes, I’ve been dying for some tea,” Sherlock explained, “and I’m not speaking to Mrs. Hudson.”

Indigo’s smile changed to more of a smirk, but he was alright with that. “I’ll make you some tea, then,” he agreed fondly.

“Yes.” There was a long silence. “Oh, you were out,” Sherlock finally remembered. “Meeting that fellow for coffee. Stanhope?”

“Stamford,” Indigo corrected. “I thought it went well, thank you for letting me go. He took me being a slave rather well. Good old—“

Sherlock was staring at him. “You _told_ him?” he asked in surprise.

“Well, yes,” Indigo assured him, carrying the tea tray over. “I was always going to, didn’t feel right not to.”

Sherlock made a skeptical noise and sat up to drink his tea. “Doubt he would’ve guessed, didn’t seem like a very observant fellow,” he judged.

“No,” Indigo agreed. “Good old Stamford. Not a lot of other fellows from back then I would’ve cared to meet now.”

“You didn’t want to meet _this_ one,” Sherlock reminded him. “ _I_ had to get his number and make you call him.”

Indigo took a bite from a ginger biscuit and offered the rest to Sherlock. “Yes, and thank you for doing that,” he acknowledged.

Sherlock ate the biscuit and gave Indigo a narrow look. “You may speak of your past to me for five minutes,” he allowed, “though I cannot promise to retain it all.”

“Not necessary,” Indigo decided, though he appreciated the gesture. “Do you want to go back to the bedroom, where it’s warmer? You can tell me about your eels.”

Sherlock blinked at him. “’Tell me about your eels,’” he repeated speculatively. “Is that a euphemism for having sex?”

“Uh, not a euphemism so much as a lead-up,” Indigo clarified, chuckling a little.

“Well, whatever gets you in the mood,” Sherlock decided, as if Indigo was suddenly the weird one. 


End file.
